


One Last Journey

by Sarcasmcat



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarcasmcat/pseuds/Sarcasmcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo never expected the journey to Erebor would end like this, marrying a dying king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Journey

Blanket tight around his shoulders Bilbo stands outside the tent Gandalf had guided him to, rooted in place. He knows he needs to go in but he can't seem to move, can't face what he knows is inside. A hand touches his shoulder and he jumps, looking up to find Gandalf looking down at him, eyes sad.

“Bilbo-”

Straightening up Bilbo nods. “I know.”

Drawing the blanket tight he takes a deep breath and enters the tent. He blinks against the darkness and slowly things come into focus, and he wishes it hadn't.

Fíli and Kíli are standing at the foot of the bed, hands clasped, looking devastated. It's obvious they've both shed tears and Bilbo wants nothing more than to comfort them but it isn't his place so instead he moves to the bed where Balin is sitting on a stool, tending to Thorin.

He must make a sound because Balin looks up, with a smile, heartbreaking in its sadness. “I'm glad they found you laddie.”

Bilbo can only nod as he gets his first clear look at Thorin, a lump forming his throat, making speech impossible even if he could find the words. There is no way this broken, battered Dwarf in front of him could possibly be Thorin Oakenshield. A massive gash above his left eye has left blood slicking the side of his face and his beard, tarnishing the bead at the end of the long braid. His great chest is wrapped in bandages, stained a red so dark it's almost black and his breathing is laboured, each breath causing his face to tighten in pain.

Only his eyes are the same, steel blue beneath dark brows and Bilbo finds himself shuffling forward, compelled by the strength there, as he has been on this entire journey.

Balin stands, resting his hand briefly on Thorin's shoulder before turning. He stops in front of Bilbo, fingers squeezing the Hobbit's shoulder. “He doesn't have much time.”

“Bilbo.” Even Thorin's voice is dying, a mere rasp in the silence of the tent and Bilbo glances to the two younger Dwarves. They both look like they're about to collapse and Bilbo can't imagine their pain at watching their uncle fade away, a pale specter of what he'd once been, had been only hours ago.

Bilbo drops onto the stool Balin had vacated and reaches out, fingers resting on the line of Thorin's collarbone, just above the bloody bandages. The skin under his fingers is cool and clammy and Bilbo hates it, wants to rub some warmth back into the skin but doesn't knowing it's futile. Thorin is slipping away and he can't do anything to stop it.

“Bilbo.” 

Swallowing hard he looks up, meeting Thorin's gaze and there is something in the blue depths, something he doesn't dare put a name to because it will hurt too much, when nothing can come of it.

“I would apologize for everything I have said. It is not fair of me.”

Bilbo jerks his head in a parody of a nod, fingers sliding up to rest over the pulse in Thorin's neck. It's slow and uneven and he closes his eyes. He knows Thorin isn't just apologizing for the disaster with the Arkenstone but everything, from the first insults in Bag End until now and there is no way he wouldn't forgive Thorin, hasn't already. “It's fine Thorin. I don't blame you for anything.”

Thorin makes a rough sound and it takes Bilbo a moment to recognize it as a laugh. “You should not be so quick to forgive me Master Hobbit. I would give you one thing so all might know the great service you have done for us.”

A coughing fit wracks Thorin's body and when he collapses back against the pillows there is blood staining his lips. Without thinking Bilbo reaches out and wipes away the crimson before cleaning his fingers on the fabric of his worn waistcoat.

With a pained grunt Thorin reaches out and manages to catch Bilbo's wrist, fingers curling around and squeezing once. “I would make you my consort, for all it is worth.”

Eyes wide with shock, Bilbo glances to Fíli and Kíli who both just nod. He looks back to Thorin who is watching him, eyes earnest and bright and before Bilbo knows what he's doing he's nodding, hand still on Thorin's throat moving up to cup his cheek.

Thorin nods and gently pushes Bilbo back. “Fíli, Orcist.” 

Fíli jumps forward and retrieves the sword, handing it to his uncle.

Thorin's hand shakes as it closes around the scabbard and he tosses back the blanket to reveal the bandage around his right thigh, a dark blotch spread across the once pristine fabric. Moving slowly he swings his legs from the bed and pauses, head bowed, breathing raspy in the silence of the tent.

Heart in his throat Bilbo stands from the stool. “Thorin-”

Thorin shakes his head and levers himself to his feet, swaying like a tree in the wind before he raises his head. “It must be done in Erebor.”

“Of course.” Bilbo knows the look on Thorin's face and in his eyes, that he will go on until his strength fades so he simply comes forward, sliding an arm around his waist to help steady him as an arm settles across his shoulders.

The journey to the tent door seems to take forever, Thorin's breathing growing more laboured with each step, Fíli and Kíli hovering just behind them as they make their way forward. They duck outside and immediately everyone around the tent stops, turning to look at them.

Bilbo ignores them as they slowly continue forward, Thorin trembling against him, every step drawing a barely stifled, pained gasp from the Dwarf. Around them everyone sinks to their knees, regardless of race, all of them paying their respects to the King under the Mountain.

Stopping on the causeway leading to Erebor's gate Thorin draws to a halt, leaning his weight against Bilbo and turns. Behind them the company is spread out in a half circle and Thorin shakes his head. “Only Fíli and Kíli will bear witness.”

Without waiting for a reply they continue their journey into the mountain. By the time they get far enough inside Bilbo is afraid Thorin is going to collapse, his breathing irregular, body shaking with strain.

Thorin pulls away from him and draws Orcist, the Elven blade bright in the faint sunlight streaming in from the ruined doors. With a grunt he slams the blade between two cracked and blackened stones. The scabbard slips from his fingers and he collapses, his grip on Orcist's hilt the only thing keeping him upright.

“Thorin!” Bilbo drops to his knees, hands curling around Thorin's over the hilt, fear running hot through his body.

Long minutes pass before Thorin raises his head, eyes hooded. “Worry not Hobbit.” He coughs, blood speckling their joined hands. “I, Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, son of Thráin, would take Bilbo Baggins, in sight of my sister-sons and heirs as royal consort, to carry the honour of my family beyond my death.”

Thorin's voice is hardly more than a whisper and Bilbo has to swallow back his tears, knowing what is coming. “I, Bilbo Baggins, would have Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain for my husband, in sight of his heirs and my soon to be kin, to carry the honour of his family, until I join my husband.”

Thorin nods and slips his hands from under Bilbo's, removing the heavy silver ring from his finger. Catching Bilbo's right hand he uncurls the fingers and slips his ring on to the third finger on Bilbo's hand, before leaning down to press a kiss to the dark stone.

The ring is too big and Bilbo clenches his hand to keep it on as he moves around Orcist to kneel in front of Thorin.

Raising his hand Thorin cups Bilbo's cheek. “Just a moment more.” He holds his free hand out and Kíli jumps forward, pressing a small knife into his uncle's hand. Thorin unsheathes the small blade and releasing Bilbo's hand drags the blade across the ball of his palm. Blood wells in the shallow cut and he offers the knife to Bilbo, handle first.

Bilbo takes the blade and draws it across his hand, managing to avoid flinching as he does so. Discarding the knife he presses his hand to against Thorin's, pressing until blood drops to the floor from between their hands.

Thorin leans forward and Bilbo kisses him without thought, not caring about the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.

Drawing back Thorin rests his forehead against Bilbo's, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “Thank you Bilbo, for everything.” Thorin sighs and slides down, forehead pressing against Bilbo's shoulder.

Tears welling in his eyes Bilbo slides a hand into the fall of Thorin's hair, cradling the back of the king's skull. He has no idea how long he sits there with Thorin against him, focusing only on the puff of breath he can feel through the layers of clothing and the slowing rise and fall of Thorin's chest. 

And when the last breath leaves the body of his husband he presses his face into the dark cascade of Thorin's hair, heedless of the blood, dirt and sweat tangling the strands and finally lets his tears fall.


End file.
